


Obscured Passion

by Avaya



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 13:11:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11231694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avaya/pseuds/Avaya
Summary: As Bruce Wayne stumbles onto something revealing about Clark Kent, he ends up finding out about himself.





	Obscured Passion

**~*~*~ _Within the Bat Cave_ ~*~*~**

As Batman came across it, he isn’t surprised. Superman has sex. It is only logical to assume. It is either _that_ or he is the World’s Greatest Chronic Masturbator.

If he hadn’t known that the two were the same, he would have been mildly amused that Clark Kent was not a virgin. The man tries unmistakably hard to keep himself unattractive to women—which detracts from his heroic persona.

The fact that he is balls deep inside Wonder Woman—Diana Prince—isn’t a shocker either. They are the paragon of their genders with several physical and mental similarities. He wonders how long it took them to _finally_ bring that sexual tension to fruition.

He watches for a couple of minutes the beautiful moving picture on a side of his Batcomputer. It isn’t that he is aroused or interested in any way. True, they both are a sight to behold: gorgeous people copulating tended to capture the eyes of many. But Bruce sees it oft himself—though not between two immortals—that it is purely mundane.

He’s just come to realize that he hasn’t ever had a chance to study Clark in such a situation, to see if he let go any part of his strength that he has to curb on a daily basis or if he shies away from sex due to not being able to fully immerse himself which would give credence to Superman: The Heroic Masturbateur.

So he allows himself a brief respite in his never-ending work of Gotham to scrutinize the two in amorous passion.

Diana’s mouth slackens a bit, sweet moans drifting from her, ebony hair strewn on the pillow as she breathes into it. Her normally defiant eyes are suffused with pleasure, French tipped nails digging into unbreakable skin that covers Clark’s hips. Her perfect breasts bounces with every deep thrust Clark makes, her face twisting into something that seems close to painful before ebbing into bliss. It could be that Clark’s hand on her waist is gripping her too tightly or that his impressively engorged length makes her feel like nearly being ripped open. Then again, Diana doesn’t have many suitors—she could simply be too tight herself.

A leg of hers is thrown over his shoulder which he holds, the other draped around his waist. Clark leans down to suckle a nipple, Diana sharply crying out, back arching into him as he gingerly bites down. Her hips never stop pushing towards him though. Is she grasping onto him for dear life or could it simply be the expression of her current roiled emotions?

Clark’s hands roam her body, twisting her nipple, thumb rubbing her clit, mouth brushing along heated pink skin to her neck. He knows that she has a deft hold on him, so he enjoys himself in caressing a body that most men will never grace. In gratitude, he seizes her throat, marking her with sky-foam eyes hazily impassioned, gentle bites and licks assaulting her demure neckline. Each roll of his body buries himself deeply inside of her, pleasure apparent with each accompanied grunt.

It dawns on him that he’s watched Diana’s apartment a bit too long when Clark lets out a strangled gasp before pummeling into Diana. Her moans became shrieks, unintelligible words strung together with no meaning as Clark’s cock pushes into her at what he would have come close to calling super-speed. He doesn’t slow, comprehension flickering that Clark came _inside_ of her, and is steadily fucking cum out of her if his spunk covered cock is any indication.

“Good for you, Clark.” He mutters with a small smile, turning back to what currently plagues Gotham.

He presses a button, effectively cutting off the feed to Diana’s apartment. He’s recorded it—strictly for educational purposes—but he couldn’t have himself deterred from finding out the Joker’s latest scheme. What he’s seen validated a few of his theories, but it raises more questions as well.

Such as the fact that though Clark and Diana are lovers, they didn’t _kiss_. It’s something he assumed Clark would do. He mouthed every other part of her body he could reach but not her mouth. Why is that?

~*~*~*~

~*~*~ **_A Few Days Later: Within the Bat Cave~*~*~_**

“Have you ever made love?”

Bruce Wayne stares incredulously at Clark Kent with narrowed eyes as he rolls himself from beneath his vehicle.

“Usually I’m well-versed in your manner of speech.” He states with a drooping edge of lip, dropping his gaze to the tool box on the ground and raising them with hand extended. “But even _I_ don’t know where you got that from.”

He doesn’t need to look to know that Clark had given him a socket wrench—what he had not asked for but what he needed. They are in synch like that, almost like they know each other’s thoughts.

When Joker had tried to set Gotham ablaze with bombs hidden in ordinary ice cream trucks, his goons acting as the distraction by terrorizing people in the streets and trying to bum-rush numerous banks, Batman hadn’t even spoken his name completely before a blur appeared in front of him, high speed winds billowing their capes afterwards.

 _“How can I help?”_ He said with earnest. The simple act of checking in with Batman let Bruce know that Superman had a grace period to diffuse the bombs, more than likely a short one.

A dormant one had been placed under the Tumbler, rigged to explode as soon it reached a certain speed limit. Bruce is now currently trying to remove it.

Clark shrugs in his off-brand T-shirt that reads NO REST FOR THE WICKED, SO I GET NADA, brushing dirt and oil from his hands on the seat of his worn out jeans.

“I clearly remember melancholic poetry being waxed about how ‘Gotham is plagued by those entranced with the delusion of innocence’ and ‘how every purity is mired with darkness creeping at its edges, waiting to consume it or the pure having already been corrupted’.” He emphasized his point by hand-motioning quotation marks.

“Plagiarism, Mr. Kent.” Bruce grunts, sliding back underneath. “You know better than that. Quote your sources. _You_ could be anyone. And the verbal repetition of what is said encompassing the majority of your speech is pure laziness. Much like a super powered being who could simply tear off this bomb like a sticker.”

He curses as the wrench falls from his hand, clattering further than his reach. He sticks his hand out in the direction of Clark.

Instead, he feels a gentle pulling on the creeper he lies upon and even if he decided to plant his feet on the ground, it would still move at its easy pace.

He scowls into the face of a mirthful Clark as the Tumbler disappears from above him, eyes alight with happiness. “All you had to do was ask.”

“ _You_ asked. I told you to diffuse the bombs. _This_ is a bomb.”

“That bomb _is_ diffused. It merely needs to be carefully extracted. But I’ll do it for you if you answer my question.”

Bruce sits up, shaking flecks of dirt from his hair and grimacing at the state of his clothes, now caked messily with oil and mud.

“I still fail to understand how ‘my morbid curiosity for anything dark’ as you put it led you to that question. And why you care in particular.”

“Many women like dark mysterious men so that they can try to immerse themselves into their world. You’ve had many women and you’re just that. I just wanted to know if you’ve ever become enlightened by any of them.”

He sighs, resting his elbows on his knees as he thinks. He remembers each foray with clarity. Plenty were pleasurable, some he loved. But did he make love to them with every fiber of his being? Did he give himself to them completely, baring his soul and all that he was?

Bats screeching overhead pull him from his thoughts.

“I don’t think I can say so, Clark.” He seriously takes in his friend who mirrors his expression. He feels compelled to ask, possibly due to the sudden image drummed up of him and Diana a few days ago. “Can you?”

The way that Clark seems to peer through him, as if he _knows_ everything that Bruce feels, unnerves him. His head tilts slightly as the corner of his lips threatened to sink.

“Don’t you ever want to do that, Bruce?”

“Having various women for single nights is preferable to attachment.” Bruce states seriously.

“So mechanical emotionless degrading sex is preferable to joining with the person you love?”

Bruce snorted. “That’s _your_ subjective purview. In mine, those three adjectives would not be used to describe my encounters.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean to color your words with my own perception. But humor me, will you? Why?”

Bruce studies his friend intently. Clark is gazing off into the distance, but there isn’t a glorious sunset or glistening ocean to behold. Just cold uninviting darkness. “Do you want me to recant the obvious?”

“No. I want you tell me what _isn’t_ obvious—something I’m not getting. Those reasons are all valid justifications, true, but there’s something else that enables you to refrain from forming close relationships.”

“You said one question, Clark.”

The man is sometimes so perceptive that it can be alarming, but it shouldn’t have surprised him. There _is_ a reason why he chooses not to get close to anyone. But he wouldn’t ever tell.

“Instead of spending nights with women you don’t care about?” He continues on, as if not hearing.

“I see that you’re just going to avoid the question that I asked you.”

“No.” He brandishes his head, raising his shoulders in another seamless shrug. “Not avoiding. I just—It’s something that I always do.”

Bruce scrutinizes him. “You make love _every_ time you have sex.”

“I _don’t_ have sex, Detective.” He smirks, getting up and lifting the Tumbler along. He then reaches down to give him a hand. “We just went over that.”

“Whatever.” He mutters, taking his hand while cataloguing the new information in the mega-computer that was his brain.

What he wants to retort is if Clark makes love every time he copulates, how come he chose not kiss Diana?


End file.
